I did all of it with such feverish intensity that I barely remember the pre-medicated Cece anymore.
I still maintain that my therapist was probably disgusted by my overt organizational approach to my own diagnosis. It didn’t matter how many times she had reassured me that my outrageous, documented presentations were actually useful.
She would look at my presentation decks and give me that unperturbed smile as she’d explain for the thousandth time that every disorder is on a spectrum. And I’m probably a vicious combination of many. It was about five years ago that she plastered another term onto my face—avoidant attachment behavior.
She didn’t use the termvicious,though. But that’s how I felt. I was an uncontrolled, violent person who was a little too skilled at blanketing the urges.
Urges that I now understand as mania. Or myhypomanictendencies.
That took me on a spiral of its own. Cyclothemia, mood disorders that were initially called manic-depressive.
I’d learned about all of it. Enough that I could potentially claim a spot in a psychiatry program. Get my transitional degree while I was at it.
But I didn’t do any of it. The only thing glaring at me was the high suicide rate. While that took me on another bend, I did realize that the difference between passive and active suicidal ideation was a life-changing one.
Pun intended.
The morbidity didn’t sway me much. I was fascinated instead.
But when I learned that alcoholism—not just regular alcohol consumption—was effectively worsening my symptoms, I stopped drinking.
I didn’t drink for a good three years.
Unfortunately, there was no one around me I could actually tell about being a teetotaler except for Vivienne. My sister didn’t bat an eye.
It seemed… functional.
But with the success I was gaining as a financial economist—and my final transition into the Wentworth Group’s Executive Director role—I was required to attend events where champagne was a mandatory prop besides your fancy clutch.
So I started drinking again.
Until my physician told me that my meds won’t work if I had alcohol in any capacity. Which was why I limited it afterwards.
In fact, I started planning around it.
If I had a gala to attend, I’d make sure there wasn’tany other event I was supposed to go to. And if I could do without alcohol, I’d usually just hold a glass in my hands and never take a sip.
But I never let myself get to a point where alcohol was something I needed to function. It was a blessing and a curse when I’d realized that it did actually help my social anxiety.
Without it, I couldn’t even make a respectable sentence.
But with medication, Isometimescould.
Without alcohol, I needed a pillow and my phone to doom scroll.
With medication, I could smile at the empty conversations.
Without them both…
I felt empty.
I had learned it. I had known it. Yet I still let myself drift to this conclusive reality where I was standing at Levi’s kitchen counter. Having just left him and his damning question to dust.
I knew where he kept his liquor, and now I’m staring at the glass of whiskey sitting next to Levi’s empty one.
“Cece?”
I jump at Levi’s infuriatingly soft voice.
